


event horizon at the attack line

by kaumari



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Extended Metaphors, Fluff, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Outer Space, Pining, Post-Time Skip, what is there to say it's just another space metaphor fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:09:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26784199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaumari/pseuds/kaumari
Summary: Being around him feels like you're being teased apart, torn into infinitesimal strings of Miya Atsumu, each one taken by Oikawa Tooru and added to his collection. Are you mad about that? How could you be, when this is everything you wanted?Miya Atsumu is a star, that much is true. But that means Oikawa Tooru is supermassive.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Oikawa Tooru
Comments: 12
Kudos: 92





	event horizon at the attack line

**Author's Note:**

> WHOO this bad boy has been sitting around for. a month. apologies about the wip tweets i kept hounding you with, BUT IT'S HERE NOW
> 
> not much to say except i'm still in my space phase so. that's just how it is.

The first time Miya Atsumu sees him, he knows nothing of a love that tears your heart open and fills it with lead. He knows nothing of a pull he can never hope to resist, or the way it rips him apart infinitesimally into pieces he could never hope to stitch back together. No, Atsumu hasn’t experienced anything of the sort, not in four years of professional volleyball. Then again, professional volleyball can’t hold a candle to Oikawa Tooru.

He doesn’t believe in fate, but it’s laughable to believe mere coincidence brought him across the net from the infamous Argentine setter in his debut match. There’s some cosmic alignment at work to make this his reality, and Atsumu refuses to let it have its way. The universe can throw anything it wants at him; he’s not afraid.

On the other side of the net, the stadium’s attention gravitates to Oikawa when he takes the ball for his first serve of the game. It’s been thirteen points, and not a single service ace to be seen. Argentina took the lead, 7-6, and now their starting setter bores his gaze into Atsumu, something akin to a god looking upon a king. It makes him grind his teeth and sink lower into a ready crouch.

Long nights of watching tapes on his laptop tell him all the theoretics of Oikawa’s serve—a monster to behold, unpredictable when he uses his hybrid—but none of that helps him now. Oikawa targets him, and Atsumu steps too far forward, pulled into Oikawa’s orbit like every other poor soul in the stadium. Even on the other side of the court, he has everyone dancing to his tune. The ball spins off of his biceps—he’d been so sure it would fall short—and it’s out of bounds before Ushijima can get a second touch.

The first service ace of the game goes to Oikawa Tooru, and the crowd chanting his name is a testament to his universality. A Japanese man, born and raised, plays for the Argentine team, collects memories like hundreds of orbiting stars.

When he smirks at Atsumu, a challenge etched in every inch, the breath catches in his throat.

“Next one,” Yaku says, slapping him on the back. Yes, Atsumu thinks, sliding into position again. This time he’ll get it. He hasn’t backed down from a challenge before, and he won’t start now.

* * *

Oikawa Tooru is the center of it all, in a way. It’s hardly a revelation, but there’s something concrete about conceptualizing it so concisely. The high school rival, grown-up and once again the final boss. Atsumu will never know the years-old drive that pushes his teammates to overcome the monster in their path, but he finds even he isn’t immune. So great is that pull, an ocean and hemisphere away, that Atsumu a conduit of hopes and dreams, can’t help but answer.

In theory, it’s a vacation with Shōyō, Kōtarō, and Kiyoomi to Buenos Aires. Meian and his wife were in Egypt visiting relatives, Tomás had taken Inunaki to visit Mexico, and Barnes was back in Australia. It was just the four of them, all connected by the Nationals circuit.

In practice, it’s a high-strung confrontation filled with constant vigilance as Atsumu tries to keep his eyes off Oikawa—because of course his team was in the city for beach practice at the same time as them, and of course Shōyō wanted to invite him along. That’s simply how the universe spun, laughing at Atsumu all the while as it made his life a living, breathing disaster.

In theory, he should be able to contain himself. He’s spent years keeping his admirations under wraps, first of Aran, then of Kita, then Kageyama and Kiyoomi and Shōyō. So what’s making the difference now? Why does it feel as if the Earth is tilting underneath him, throwing him out of his own gravity?

Unbalanced, off-center every time Oikawa’s earthen eyes cast themselves his way, at odds with the heat expansion in his chest.

Every time Oikawa calls him “Atsu-chan” in that faux-mocking manner, fire in his voice and ice in his hands when he touches Atsumu on the arm or the neck or the small of his back, because he’s lived in Argentina for years now and new habits coalesce in the absence of the old.

Burning heart under burning skin under burning sun, and Atsumu feels the cool bliss of Oikawa’s hands like salvation, or maybe undoing, but it hardly matters when this is a temporary junction of time and space that he will never occupy again.

Oikawa shows them around Palermo in between his practices, always at sunset, as if Atsumu needed more reasons to fall further. Look at his glow, swallowed up the night, and the stretch of his smile, swallowed by Atsumu’s eyes. Oikawa’s arm around his shoulders, posing for a memory to be looked back on when he finds the night too lonely to bear, is distracting in its solidity.

Their vacation is over sooner than Atsumu expects, and it’s strange how time warps around Oikawa Tooru until he has space to collect himself.

* * *

Trajectories aren’t linear, nor are they perfect arcs. This is his cardinal knowledge as a setter. Everything has an arc, imperfect, but the ball will unerringly reach its destination just as he desires. How long has he been on this trajectory, unerringly delivered into Oikawa’s orbit? He can’t say, but showing up to Shōyō’s birthday party wasn’t supposed to involve Oikawa. Should he be surprised anymore?

Oikawa is entrancing as always—or maybe more so, the closer Atsumu gets. It’s difficult to tell when the light is suffocated around him, dim in comparison. When Oikawa looks his way, he has to contain the inescapable feeling of being shaken apart at his core.

“Atsu-chan, you’re here.” He puts on a cocky smile, tilts his head, tries to mask the panic brought with this off-kilter love of his.

“Tooru-kun, wouldja look at that. I didn’t think ya’d make it.” Undeterred, or perhaps spurred on, by his barbed greeting, Oikawa chuckles, and it echoes in his mind.

“So cruel, Atsu-chan. How could I miss the opportunity to reunite with my favorite Japanese team members?” He means absolutely nothing by that, Atsumu knows that. “I’ll be staying for a week or so, though.”

Atsumu arches an eyebrow. “Oh? Visitin’ yer folks?”

“Something of the sort,” Oikawa hums. “I wanted to reconnect a bit since I was able to get away at all, and this seemed like an opportunity, is all.” His eyes, sharp and alight with humor, slide to the crowd around them. “Say, Atsu-chan, have you ever visited Miyagi?”

“No, this is my first time.”

“What do you think about staying for a few days? I’ll show you around.”

What a terrible idea, to situate himself so firmly in Oikawa’s orbit.

“Hm, not a terrible idea.” Atsumu is not known for his good decisions. “Another few days outta Osaka won’t kill me.”

“Then it’s settled. I’ll pick you up from your hotel tomorrow morning.” He winks and adds, “Think of it as extra conditioning. There’ll be even more walking than in Palermo.”

* * *

_“What a beautiful service ace from setter Miya Atsumu! A clean in, untouchable!”_ The low-back chair Atsumu is sitting on makes it easy Tooru drapes himself over his back, resting his arms on Atsumu’s head.

“Atsu-chan, this match again? You watched the whole thing this morning and woke me up.” Atsumu doesn’t need to look to know Tooru is pouting above him. “You won and you looked hot as you did it, now come on.”

“Tooru-kun, ya knew I would’ve woken ya up anyway. Ya said ya wanted ta go on my run with me.”

“But that’s different,” he whines, sinking more of his weight on Atsumu’s back.

“The difference was ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes of beauty sleep lost! Not all of us look so effortlessly handsome, Atsu-chan.” Atsumu groans and covers his face with his arm.

“Why wouldja say that?”

Tooru clicks his tongue. “You’re so bad at taking compliments, we need to work on that.” He pulls himself forward to lean over Atsumu and pries his arm off his face with little resistance. “Aw, you’re adorable. Look at how red you’ve gotten,” he teases. Atsumu slaps his arm in retaliation.

“Fuck off,” he hisses, making a valiant effort to squirm out from under Tooru’s body, but it’s as hopeless as it’s always been. Tooru cackles and switches tactics, wrapping his arms around Atsumu in a hug to prevent him from moving.

“You’ll never escape my clutches now!”

Oh, if only Tooru knew. If only he knew that Atsumu had been caught in his clutches for years now, well before he’d ever realized how inevitable their collision would be. If only he understood his own relentless pull, oceans and continents and a net away. Earthen eyes, ice hands, look at him glow. How could Atsumu ever have hoped to make it out unscathed?

Atsumu stops moving and gives in, letting Tooru have his way. After a few seconds, the anaconda hug loosens, and he’s is finally unpinned from between the countertop and Tooru’s body. “How kind of ya ta let me breathe again,” he says, rolling his eyes when Tooru has the audacity to laugh.

“I’d be concerned for your career if you couldn’t even handle a hug, Atsu-chan.” Tooru rests his head in his hand, elbow propped on the counter, and stares at Atsumu fondly. There’s a smile playing on his lips, absent-minded, an afterthought.

What is it like, to love someone so much your lost thoughts gather in the spread of your lips, in the corners of your eyes? Atsumu wouldn’t know. His love is eventual destruction hidden in gentle words, the glide of his hands, a whispered “Tooru-kun” to an empty room in the dregs of the night. Watch it tear him to pieces, thought by thought, skin by muscle by sinew by bone, until one day you look at him and find the unnerving product of his unraveling. Watch it encompass him, a singularity hidden in the eyes, lips, hands of Oikawa Tooru, and the pressure collapses around him.

“You know, I almost didn’t kiss you at Okama,” Tooru admits, reaching out a hand to drag his thumb along Atsumu’s bottom lip.

“Hm? Why not?”

“I got too caught up in how pretty you were.” He grins cheekily and pulls his hand back. “You have no idea how excited you were to see a crater.”

“It was a beautiful lake,” Atsumu pouts. It doesn’t last long when Tooru takes the opportunity to kiss it away, just enough to make Atsumu melt against him. “Yer such a cheat,” he mumbles without any heat after pulling away.

“Ah, does that mean you don’t want any more kisses, Atsu-chan?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, we don’t have time for that.” Tooru pulls his phone out of his pocket and opens his messages. “Tobio-chan just made it down from Tokyo and Shōyō wants us to meet up.”

“Seriously?” He huffs, leaning over to look at Tooru’s screen. “If it’s lunch, Shōyō better be payin’. He’s the one bein’ sponsored by Bouncing Ball.”

“I’m sure if Tobio-chan bets he can’t pay for us, he’ll cave.”

“Yer evil, Tooru-kun.” Tooru only smiles at him mischievously and shrugs.

“Takes one to know one.” There’s that smile again, cresting up to pull at the corners of his eyes, and Atsumu is a goner. He always had been, the moment Tooru had stepped foot on the court of their first match, snagged by his presence. Look at him glow, filled with a light that isn’t his own, but which he embodies to the fullest.

He never stood a chance, from the moment Tooru set his first ball, the trajectory a perfect arc, and lodged himself in Atsumu’s heart. He never stood a chance against the totality of Tooru’s existence, collecting stars like memories or strength or validation.

“It sure does,” he agrees, letting himself fall further past the event horizon. He never stood a chance anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> IN CASE y'all don't know anything about astronomy and just nodded along with whatever i said, the metaphor is that oikawa is a black hole and atsumu is a star. black holes eventually consume all matter in their gravitational orbits and consist of an event horizon (the point past which you can't escape the gravity of the black hole) and the singularity (the point at which matter is absorbed by the black hole, although the process for this is still disputed).
> 
> find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/kaumaridevi) \+ [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/kaumaridevi)!


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